Sweet Dreams
by TeaLogic
Summary: SPOILERS for 2x02. Insight for Hounds. After Sherlock snaps at him in the pub, John resolutely decides not to bother with him anymore that night. Drabble.


_SPOILERS for 2x02. Insight for Hounds. After Sherlock snaps at him in the pub, John resolutely decides not to bother with Sherlock anymore that night. Drabble._

**A/N**: A silly drabble to help with the stress of exams. I couldn't help but think something further happened between those two after the ding-dong in the pub and the interview of Doctor Mortimer, so I wrote this. Please point out any mistakes and feedback is warmly welcomed :)

**Warnings**: **MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2, EPISODE 2, **John/Sherlock friendship, fluff.

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><p><span>Sweet Dreams<span>

John is slowly taking the steps up to the hotel room and in his mind comes to the conclusion that he will simply refuse to check on him.

It's past midnight and it's fair to say that John is pretty miserable. Being out on the moors earlier left a chill in his lungs that hasn't quite gone away, although what he discovered whilst being out there was much more damaging to the mind. Added to that, he's still carrying the humiliation of that little 'interview' with Doctor Mortimer. God, that was embarrassing when Doctor Frankland decided to show his face and wreck any delicacy John was trying to put in place in order to know more about Henry. He didn't get any information and he was sure that Louise thought he was some sort of major and desperate idiot. At least she got his number. If that meant anything.

He is bitterly reminded that he did it for _him._ John rummages his pockets for his hotel key. He fishes out his phone and briefly considers texting him. Briefly. He could always tell Sherlock what he did manage to find out in the morning.

After Louise left, John spent roughly an hour finishing the wine and brooding. He guessed that Sherlock went upstairs a while ago, most likely to have a strop and think and scowl at nothing in particular. He can imagine the detective upstairs now, hands on head, lying stock still on his bed, thinking a hundred things in the space of a second.

Or at least, he should be.

Don't get him wrong. John is still angry over the spat they had in pub. On how Sherlock openly mocked him with his idiotic deductions and then furiously declared that he didn't have any friends. John is more annoyed that Sherlock, as always, can provoke something out of him. His last words before he stormed out of the pub felt ugly in his mouth even before he finished saying them. But that man _cannot_ help himself. He must poke at John's temperament. And John doesn't like the fact that he feels incredibly guilty for it all. Even though Sherlock was the one who lost his temper.

John stops in the middle of hall and sends a text.

**To 'Sherlock'**

**Are u in the room?**

**Sent 00:17**

He couldn't help but reflect as he sat at the table mere minuets ago on how Sherlock looked in the glow of the fire. How he stared off into space, muttering inane thing after inane thing with John barely following what he was saying. Never had Sherlock been so out of control, and John was comparing it to the time they tried playing Monopoly after the failure of Cluedo. This didn't even come _close._

No instant, irritating reply to the text. Odd.

Sherlock sounded so incredibly unhinged and afraid downstairs. Like a little kid who had a horrific nightmare. What did he say?

John attempts to recall it aloud... "Whatever is improbable...?" No, "Whatever is impossible, however improbable..." A slightly tipsy couple who keep giggling make their way past him and then stare at him curiously. John flashes them a wan smile. _Don't mind me, just one those _nutters_ mumbling to himself..._

Oh, who knows? _Who cares? _Sherlock may have acted weirdly tonight, but when did he ever act normal? It's all too easy to dismiss it. There is also the fact that his brain is faintly letting him know that a headache is threatening to hit him right where it hurts. Might as well just take the two remaining paracetamol lurking in his bag and then be lost to unconsciousness for a few hours. Sherlock will undoubtedly bug him in the early hours of the morning anyway with some theory or fact that he's come upon. All events of tonight would be lost on him.

He will not do it, he says quietly to himself as he turns the key in the wooden door and opens it to an unfamiliar room. Never had adjoining rooms been so handy. John didn't want to imagine the implications of sharing a room with his flatmate after the row they just had. As if on cue, John can't help but glance at the door that is the link between the two rooms. But still, he adamantly refuses to check up on him. He's already taken off his shoes and jumper, and he's about to go through his suitcase to find his pyjamas.

A second later, he throws his socks to the floor, frustrated.

"Damn it!" he berates himself in an angry whisper. He turns on his heel and is now face to face with the door. He contemplates putting his ear to it, in case Sherlock really doesn't want to be disturbed. Instead he knocks lightly. A moment later, he quietly undoes the latch and slowly pushes the door open, cursing inwardly at the noisy, interfering scream the hinges make.

John can see Sherlock's prone form on the bed in the low light of the lamp on the bedside table. As he takes hesitant steps forward, there is the relief that Sherlock is asleep, even though it's highly unusual. A second glance says there is much more to it, however. Lying on his front and clutching at the pillow, it simply looks as if Sherlock collapsed into the position and it was sheer luck that a bed happened to be underneath. He's still fully clothed and hasn't bothered with the sheets. His knuckles that are grabbing at the pillow like a life ring are a ghostly white as the bone appears under the skin. Red cheeks look even more pronounced on his deathly pallor and a thin film of sweat sticks to his forehead. He looks distinctly uncomfortable in every sense, and if John didn't know any better, could at that the moment be experiencing a very bad dream. John thinks about high fever and illness.

So not to wake him, he gently presses two fingers on Sherlock's exposed neck to feel for a pulse, the skin is flushed and damp with perspiration. Yet John barely has two seconds to register an elevated pulse rate before Sherlock springs upright in alarm, a strangled noise escaping his throat. All hell breaks loose as the pillow rolls off the bed and Sherlock is on his feet in a flurry of clumsy movements and yells. He stiffens into a fighting stance, his fists balled, ready to attack whatever has invaded his space. He blinks in the dim light and staggers forward.

John leaps backwards, hands raised in defence, "Oi! It's me Sherlock! Jesus!"

There is a beat of a pause. "John?"

"Who the hell did you think I was?"

"I... nothing." Sherlock shakes his head and suddenly changes his posture. A defiant look flashes across his face as he folds his arms. He squints at John, "What are you doing in here anyway?"

John shrugs_. I really shouldn't have bothered. _For that moment, he considers lying. Sherlock's petulance is rubbing off him in spades and he thinks that coming back with some snarky retort is a good idea. But instead he pays attention to the flushed cheeks and remembers the incredibly fast heart rate and decides it's best to tell him the truth.

Besides, the bugger will just deduce that he's lying anyway.

"I was looking in on you. You, er, you didn't look very well downstairs... when we were..." He trails off, hands waving at thin air, not really wanting to recall the incident downstairs by the fire. Sherlock however, looks rather confused. John notices that he's blinking a little too rapidly. Then the both of them happen to cast their glances at the floor and say nothing.

After an evening of awkward silences, John decides enough is enough, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine!"

John leans against the doorframe. "You don't look it"

Sherlock turns away and walks over to his own bag that's sitting on the desk and begins rootling through it in an agitated fashion. "I don't care" He begins to chuck various things on to the floor, clothes, books –was that an eyeglass?

"Well, I know that."

Sherlock patently ignores him and takes out a pocket sized periodic table. He sits back down on the bed and studies it.

_Oh for god's sake. _

"Sherlock-"

"You're as subtle as a train wreck. You can stop checking me. I haven't taken anything"

"I never said you did"

Sherlock still refuses to look up and starts circling elements with a red pen, making notes around the grid. "You're still looking for the signs"

John decides to bite down the retort stored in the back of his brain and instead heads for the shared bathroom. He grabs a glass of water and then goes through his suitcase to retrieve the two paracetamol. He stares at the two little pills wistfully, before going back into Sherlock's room. He notices that Sherlock is ignoring him, continuing to circle elements with one hand and texting on his phone with the other. John sets the two pills and the glass on the small table.

"Excuse me for caring"

He catches Sherlock's glance before turning to walk out. He was right; it was a bad idea to check on him. And he's lost two painkillers.

"John"

He looks over his shoulder and flinches a little at Sherlock's scrutinising stare.

"Yes?"

"Did you have any tea recently?"

"What?"

"Uh, nothing." He flaps his hands at John, waving him away. "Go to bed"

John shakes off the oddity and finally shuts the door. He flops on to the bed, massaging his forehead and only just realises how strange it is for Sherlock Holmes to tell _him_ to go to bed. He then spends a few thoughts on just how strange the whole case has been. He is about to drop off, but then a high pitched ringing cuts through the air. His jacket is vibrating on the floor.

His phone. It's his phone making that noise. In the middle of the night.

If that's Sherlock, he's going to get an earful.

Without trying to effectively get out of bed, he reaches over to his jacket and extracts the dammed thing from the pocket. He manages to answer before the last ring. Pushing himself back into bed, he looks at his watch. 01:42AM. He looks over to check that the door is firmly closed before speaking in a highly strained voice.

"Mycroft! A pleasure"

"_A bit late in the night for sarcasm, Doctor Watson"_

John would just love to make a witty reply about just how bloody late in the night it is, but being this tired means it won't sound out the way he hears it in his head. Besides, dealing with one Holmes in the span of a day is far too much for anybody. "I don't want to hear it"

"_I take it my little brother is being an incredible pain in the backside?"_

"You have no idea"

"_I figured as much. I'm calling to let you know, I'm sending round some help, since you both seem to have a fondness for causing international security scares when you're not being properly supervised." _

Now John feels a pang of anxiety. Sherlock will not appreciate that. "What do you mean by help?"

"_Oh, nothing major, I can assure you. There's nothing he can do about it of course, but considering he only just got back from his second honeymoon in India five hours ago, he's seems rather pleased"_

John doesn't bother to conceal a sigh. It's Greg. Now it seems like the whole 'family' is together on this. It would only take Molly to be running around the labs of Baskerville, petting the rabbits and Anderson to be strolling around the moors and it would be a real _get-together_.

"Oh great."

"_He should be there by tomorrow morning." _Mycroft then adds, almost like an afterthought, "_Keep an eye on Sherlock for me"_

Another audible sigh, "I always do"

"_I know"_

Mycroft hangs up, and John decidedly switches the phone to silent. He chucks on to the floor and for the final time that night, gets to his feet and opens the door. When he can hear the low, rhythmic breathing, he quietly enters the room, turns off the light and collects the empty glass. One can only hope that whatever is wrong with Sherlock is gone by the morning.

**To 'John'**

**Thank you for the pills. S**

**Sent 01:52**


End file.
